


Sierra Leone

by indigentsalt



Series: Channels [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigentsalt/pseuds/indigentsalt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories based on Channel Orange by Frank Ocean.</p><p>Stiles and Lydia's son has a sniffing problem, so Stiles calls the only person that would know what to do with that. (I'm the worst at summaries?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sierra Leone

**Author's Note:**

> I think this was written mid-season 2, so there will be some discrepancies.

“Thomas, where are you? Thomas! Thomas!” Stiles’ brow furrowed, his steps quickening towards the  sliding glass door he left open a few minutes ago to answer the phone. But a shriek stopped him in his tracks, his worst fear realized. Turning on his heel, Stiles bolted out of the kitchen and dashed up the stairs. His heart pounded, but refused to slow as he gradually realized that he was hearing cries of laughter. He crept to the door of the nursery, a small room carpeted in cream with candy orange and lavender stripes on the wall. There was Thomas, standing on Lydia’s nursing chair, which he’d pulled to the side of the crib, his head and his ginger curls hanging over his baby sister. Stiles felt his chest twist with painful pride, watching as Maggie reached up with tiny fists to grip at her brother.

“Thomas, what are you doing?” Stiles asked, and Thomas jerked back guiltily from the crib, eliciting another cry from his little sister. The little boy couldn’t meet his father’s eyes.

“I just wanted to...” he began, but didn’t finish. Stiles sighed, and little Maggie yelped again, little fingers squeezing in Thomas’ direction. Thomas turned wistfully back towards his sister, and their father crossed the room, scooping Maggie up from her crib and bouncing her gently in his arms. Just like Thomas at that age, she quickly calmed, nuzzling Stiles’ collarbone.

“You know who was on the phone?” Stiles asked his son. Thomas shook his head, staring widely back at him. Stiles picked up Thomas in his other arm, struggling for a moment before he sat and placed Thomas on his knee. Immediately, Thomas inched into his father until his head was pressed against Stiles’ chest. “It was Miss Hannah,” Stiles said. Thomas didn’t answer. “She said you were smelling people again today,” Stiles went on gently, stroking his son’s soft back.

Stiles couldn’t get enough of his kids. He felt warmer, more complete when they were with him. He had had a very hard time letting go when Thomas had grown out of his arms, wanting to run free instead of cuddle with his father. Having this chance to hold Thomas was a relief for him, even though he had all the opportunities he wanted with Maggie, only eleven months old. Both of them at once was a luxury. He could hear Maggie sucking her thumb under his ear.

“Sarah doesn’t like it,” Thomas admitted to his father, and Stiles nodded slightly.

“Maybe don’t smell Sarah,” Stiles consoled his son. They had tried getting Thomas to stop smelling. They had tried everything. Rewards, punishments, good examples, chili flakes to make his eyes water, but he and Lydia had not been able to cure their son of his habit. Smelling was harmless, sure, but it made people very uncomfortable. Especially from such a little boy. “You can smell us,” he offered. “Me and Mommy and Maggie and Pop and Nana and Grandpa,” he went on. “You can smell your family.”

“That’s what I was doing!” Thomas insisted, finally meeting his father’s eyes. “I wanted to smell Maggie. Make sure she was family,” he explained, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. Stiles frowned.

“What does family smell like?” Stiles asked, trying to prompt his son into a real explanation for this. Thomas just looked at him.

“Family,” was all he said, sounding confused. “Family smells like family.” Stiles was about to ask him something else when Thomas perked up. “MOMMY’S HOME!” he declared at a yell, and leapt from his father’s lap. Baffled, Stiles hurried to his feet, still cradling Maggie. Sure enough, he heard Lydia’s car pulling into the driveway. The kid had good hearing. They followed Thomas down the stairs. He smiled, seeing Lydia cooing to their progeny from the doorway. They had the same thick red hair, grey-green eyes, little ears and wide cheekbones.

“Hi Puppy,” she sang, scooping up Thomas and eskimo-kissing him, making him giggle and throw his arms around his mother.

“Hey honey,” Stiles said when he reached the bottom of the stairs. Carefully holding their children, they exchanged a kiss on the cheek and one on the lips. “How was class?” he asked. Lydia let out a loud sigh, placed Thomas on the floor and held out her arm.

“I wish the college didn’t require the kids to take a math class. I don’t want kids in advanced calculus unless they can _do_ advanced calculus,” she replied as Stiles carefully placed Maggie in her hold. Immediately, the infant began to squirm, sensing her mother and remembering it had been a while since she’d eaten.

“Sit,” Stiles encouraged her. Lydia had her face pressed against Maggie’s, breathing in deeply the essence of her daughter. Stiles watched, affection blooming inside him, as Maggie appeared to do the same thing.

“I want mommy to carry me!” Thomas announced, tugging on the skirt of Lydia’s black shift dress.

“Mommy has to feed Maggie,” Stiles told his son as Maggie began to fuss, chubby pink fingers picking at the low neck of her dress. Lydia stepped past her husband of six years, grabbing the ratty towel from the windowsill where Stiles had left it after Maggie’s noon feeding, and sat down in a plush leather chair in the living room. She kicked off her nude patent leather high heels and then began removing the straps of her dress. Stiles meanwhile shut the front door and picked up Lydia’s handbag from the floor, taking it to the kitchen.

“Hungry, kiddo?” he asked Thomas, who had followed him somewhat forlornly. Thomas nodded and Stiles reached into the fridge, grabbing an apple. He took out a cutting board and a knife and began cutting the apple into bite-sized five-year-old pieces, handing them to his son.

“The door is open, Stiles,” hummed Lydia from the living room. He glanced at the sliding door, which he still hadn’t closed.

“The phone rang, and I forgot to close it,” he explained, leaning on the doorway to the living room, his eyes on Lydia and Maggie. Lydia never, _ever_ breastfed in public, and at first, she had always covered herself with a blanket when she was feeding Thomas. To Stiles’ delight, eventually she had stopped. Stiles loved watching her, loved that she could share something so personal with their child. That Lydia was the mother of his children, well, he loved watching her with their kids. Lydia had this blissed out look on her face, which she only ever had with Thomas and Maggie. She still reserved her more severe expressions for Stiles and her students at Stanford. So getting to see her like this was also a treat. “It was Miss Hannah,” Stiles added. Lydia’s eyes opened and she looked at him, giving him her full attention, even as she stroked Maggie’s slightly brunette head.

“What’d she say?” she asked, sounding worried.

“Thomas was smelling the other kids again,” he admitted. Lydia sighed.

“Maybe I should never have started calling him Puppy,” she murmured. Puppy was her pet name for Thomas, given for the way he’d always snuffled during feeding. Stiles smiled wryly. “Do you think he’ll outgrow it?” Lydia asked, suddenly nervous. “Should we take him to counseling?” Stiles shrugged.

“I don’t think so. I think he just... Hasn’t learned his boundaries yet,” he offered. Lydia shifted and Maggie let out a dissatisfied grunt at being joggled.

“Well he got my brains and my hair, I guess he got your social skills,” she answered, and Stiles laughed.

“Are you sure he’s not the mailman’s? He’s always been pretty awkward,” he pointed out, and Lydia glared at him.

“Hush,” she reprimanded him, moving Maggie to her other breast. Stiles appraised his wife for a moment, beautiful in her post-work feeding dishevelment. Some locks of hair were stuck to her neck with sweat from the early September heat, and some of her makeup had gotten wiped off, revealing scores of freckles across her nose. Lydia had eyes only for her daughter though.

“He says we smell like family,” he said conversationally, and Lydia glanced up at him.

“What does family smell like?” she wondered, and Stiles laughed.

“That’s what I asked,” he replied. Lydia shook her head.

“Maybe he’s part wolf,” the woman suggested with a sigh, eyes still on her daughter. “Smelling for friends and foes and pack. Maybe that’s why he sniffs all the others at school.” Stiles blinked, then stared at Lydia for a moment. She met his eyes. “What?” she asked sharply.

“Maybe he is,” Stiles muttered. Now _there_ was a thought.

\------

Stiles had to wait until Lydia had settled in the nursery with Maggie for her last feeding of the night before he could make the phone call he wanted to. And he had to take care of Thomas.

“Say goodnight to mommy,” Stiles instructed his son as they passed the open door to the nursery. Lydia smiled over her bare shoulder at Stiles and a freshly bathed and dressed Thomas.

“‘Night mommy!” Thomas crowed, squirming in Stiles’ arms. “Wanna hug,” he informed his father.

“You can kiss mommy on the cheek,” he told him, and stepped into the nursery, holding Thomas at arms length over Lydia’s shoulder.

“Night night, Puppy,” Lydia hummed, turning her face so that Thomas could plant a sloppy smooch on her cheek.

“Love you,” the little boy announced, and nuzzled his mother. Stiles pulled Thomas back into his arms and took him to his room, where he tucked him into bed and knelt down beside him.

“I want you to remember about what Miss Hannah said,” Stiles murmured, reaching out to stroke wet curls from Thomas’ forehead. Thomas looked away. “It’s okay with me, and your mother, and your sister. But smelling is not something we do with any others, okay?” Just as Stiles feared, Thomas sucked his lower lip into his mouth, his eyes filling with tears.

“But I had to see if she was... Was...” Unable to find the words, Thomas began crying, and Stiles immediately removed the boy from his blankets and cradled him to his chest, shushing him and rocking him gently. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Stiles soothed, stroking Thomas’ back, pressing his face into his son’s thick hair. He stood, walking the boy back and forth. “I know. You just wanted to check. But you have to check by asking, by playing,” he went on, unsure what to say. He was starting to get an idea of what Thomas was trying to do, and it was making him more nervous by the second.

“Come on,” he added as Thomas sniffed and leaked snot and spit all over his shirtfront. He slipped out of the darkened room and into his office, shutting the door behind him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to Lydia until he was sure of his suspicions. She didn’t like this kind of stuff getting brought up. He hummed in Thomas’ ear as he picked up his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts. There was an ancient entry for Derek Hale, and he hit it and put the phone to his ear. Almost instantly, he got the voice of that mysterious woman-

“I’m sorry, this number has been dis-”

Stiles ended the call, stared at his phone screen for a moment while worrying his lip between his teeth, and then hit speed dial 4.

“Hello?”

“Hey Dad, it’s Stiles.”

“Hey, son!” said Sheriff- former Sheriff- Stilinski happily. Stiles couldn’t help but smile. His dad was always happy to hear from him, much more so than when Stiles had been a teenager. These days, unlike in high school, a phone call from him usually didn’t have to do with anything illegal. “What’s going on? How’re the kids?” Sheriff Stilinski was, predictably, a doting grandfather. He’d been gently nudged off the force after his heart attack, but nobody had even considered letting him go from the Beacon Hills County law enforcement department. He now ran the police academy just outside Beacon Hills, which served the neighboring towns. And everyone still called him Sheriff.

“They’re great. Lydia’s putting Maggie to bed now, and Thomas is with me,” he answered, still staring out the window as Thomas drifted to sleep in his arms. The moon was half full now. Stiles had never gotten out of the habit of checking its phases. “We’ve set Maggie’s birthday party for the 4th, so you can come play Grandpa then,” he told his father.

“That’s a Saturday, right? Do you need anything for her?” he asked, and Stiles grinned, picturing his father’s eagerness.

“I’ll talk to Lydia. But her folks are gonna be there, and she says her mom’s bringing a boyfriend,” he mentioned casually.

“Huh,” said the sheriff. “Anna dating, at her age?” he said thoughtfully.

“It’s not unheard of Dad, you know. There are all these websites, like SeniorSingles.com, have you heard-”

“Come on, Stiles,” the sheriff scoffed. “Me, dating? I’m an old fart now, who’d want to date me?”

“Look, I’m just saying, if you want to bring a friend, you’re welcome to.” Stiles assured his father. Sheriff Stilinski hmphed. “Anyway, I need a favor,” he went on.

“Sure, what is it?” he asked. Again, he was a lot happier to help Stiles out now that he was sure he wasn’t involved in murders.

“I need a phone number.” Stiles said.

“Let me pull up the database,” said the Sheriff, and Stiles could hear typing in the background. He knew his dad had access to all the Beacon County information from his position at the police academy. “What’s the last name?” he asked. Stiles took a deep breath.

“Hale,” he said. There was a pause.

“Hale,” repeated his father, as if he was unsure.

“Hale. Derek Hale.” Sheriff Stilinski took a deep breath.

“Now I know you’re a grown man, Stiles, but just what exactly do you want with Derek Hale?” he asked.

“Uh,” said Stiles. Clearly he should have thought of something beforehand. “You know. Just wanna, er, catch up. Bring back all those fond high school memories,” he tried. Sheriff Stilinski sighed, and Stiles felt like he was sixteen again.

“You could just tell me to mind my own business,” he grumbled. “The number is...”

When his father hung up, Stiles put his phone down and took Thomas to his bedroom, tucking the sleeping boy back into his blankets and turning on his night light. He slipped out, leaving the door open, and went to the nursery, where Lydia was watching over a slightly squirmy, almost-sleeping Maggie. He moved beside her, putting an arm around her waist. He gently pushed the mobile of carved wooden birds that hung above the bed, bells chiming as it moved. The baby was too tired to giggle, but let out a muffled sort of noise as her eyes shut, and Stiles smiled.

“I think I’ll start weaning her next week,” Lydia said thoughtfully. She shook her head. “I’m so sick of the freshmen staring at my tits all class.” Stiles let out a laugh and led his wife from the room, checking that the baby monitor was on.

“I talked to my dad,” he said conversationally as they entered their bedroom.

“What’d he say?” Lydia asked, going to her dresser and pulling off the tank top she’d put on after work. Changing out of his own plaid, button-down shirt, Stiles admired her curved back and the smattering of freckles around her spine.

“He’s excited about the party, he said he’ll come,” he answered. “Wanted to know if we needed anything for Maggie,” he added.

“Ummm,” she hummed tunelessly, shimmying out of a pair of loose jeans. “Well I was thinking of getting Puppy a little table he could sit at to draw or do crafts,” she said thoughtfully, changing her underwear and slipping on a pair of Stiles’ boxers to sleep in. He was always finding his clothes in her laundry. Braless, she pulled on a white t-shirt that could have been his or hers.

“I’ll let him know,” Stiles answered as he pulled off his socks and trousers.

“Can I have a back rub?” Lydia asked him, glancing at him over her shoulder with that famous pout of hers. He definitely felt like he was sixteen again.

“Of course,” he answered, and she sat on the bed with her back to him. He climbed over to her, starting at her neck as she began to tell him about a meeting she’d had with the dean of the college where she worked. A lot of Stiles’ peers said that Lydia had him totally whipped. It was completely true, but Stiles didn’t mind. Lydia worked at Stanford, teaching undergraduates and graduates in mathematics, but the real money she made doing tutoring for rich kids. Stiles stayed at home, minding Maggie and Thomas and copy-editing for an LA based publishing house. Stiles quite liked his life. He had made friends with the mothers in the neighborhood, which of course alienated him from their husbands, but he liked Lydia’s professor friends. They were too caught up in their theoretical problems to care what he did for a living.

“Are you asleep?” Stiles asked twenty minutes later. Lydia’s conversation had petered out, and she was lying on her stomach with her face tucked into her arms. Stiles was seated on her butt, massaging her lower back.

“No,” she mumbled, and Stiles smiled. He pulled her shirt down and fell off of her so he was lying beside her on the bed. He slung an arm around her and pulled himself against her. “Stiles,” she sighed in exasperation.

“What?” he asked. “I didn’t even do anything! I’m innocent!” he declared. This elicited a giggle from her, something it would not have done ten years earlier. “Can’t a man cuddle his own wife?” Lydia turned towards him so they were both on their sides, facing each other. Since she couldn’t admit she was wrong, she simply leaned over and kissed him, her cool palm on his cheek. He thought she would pull away, but as the seconds ticked by and Stiles lost track of them, he found himself chest to chest with Lydia, her mouth hungry. His hand slipped under her shirt and he stroked the skin of her stomach, knowing her breasts would be sensitive just then. When she didn’t push him away, his hand moved down, stretching the waistband of his boxers and the elastic of her knickers. She gasped when he touched her.

“Oh Stiles,” she sighed, her eyes closing, and her own hand reached forward, under his boxers, gripping him expertly. He choked a little, his eyes shutting too. They were acting like teenagers. Which wasn’t always so bad. “I want you,” she whispered, using her hand to nudge him into position above her. Steeling himself, Stiles kissed her thoroughly as she took care of their respective undergarments.

_Damn_ , Stiles thought as her legs circled his hips. He’d wanted to call Derek.

\------

“Lydia! Lydia wait!” Stiles called out the open front door, still hurrying down the steps. Maggie giggled and clapped in his arms as she bounced in his hold. He ran into the screen door, backed up and hit the handle, and hurried outside. “Lydia!” he shouted. Thankfully, he caught her attention as she was about to pull down the street in the two door cherry red coupe she’d treated herself to when she won her Fields Medal. She rolled down the window and he hurried across the grass, still in a t-shirt and boxers and no shoes or socks. “Here,” he said, handing her the stack of papers she’d graded the afternoon before and left in her office.

“Oh god,” she sighed, taking them and slipping them into her bag. “Thanks hon.” she said with a smile, and Stiles smiled too, waving Maggie’s little hand at her mother.

“Say bye mommy,” he said to his daughter, who babbled and drooled a little bit. Lydia smiled.

“Stiles, I want you to start looking up therapists for Puppy,” she said, and Stiles blinked, surprised.

“Sure,” he said, though he had something else in mind. He would have argued, since they didn’t exactly have the money to pay for counseling, nor did he trust that sort of stuff, but this way she wouldn’t ask for a while. That would give him enough time to talk to Derek. “Will do. You’re coming home at five today?” he asked. Lydia shook her head.

“Kyle’s mom cancelled. I’ll be home at three thirty.” she replied.

“Excellent. I’ll see you then.” Lydia blew him a kiss and drove off. Stiles, unembarrassed by his state of undress, waved to Mrs. Across-the-Street, who was jogging in from her morning run with her twins in their stroller. She waved back, and Stiles returned to his house, shutting the door behind him. He put Maggie in her playpen, dressed himself, dressed his son, and bundled them both into the Chevy sedan that served as the family car. When he had dropped Thomas off at kindergarten with Miss Hannah and a reminder that smelling was just for family, gotten the groceries, and returned home, he put Maggie down for her nap and sat down at his desk. He wanted to call Derek right away, but he had to get some work done first.

It wasn’t until he had fed Maggie her lunch, read through two chapters of a tragically bad science fiction novel and edited out more excessive commas than he could count, watered and weeded his garden and made his own lunch that Stiles had a chance to call the number his father had given him.

Although he occasionally thought of Derek Hale, he had never really considered what the other man would be doing. Did he have a job? He knew he was still in Beacon Hills, since he’d been in his father’s database, but was he still inhabiting the dilapidated Hale House? The phone rang twice before a deep voice answered.

“Derek Hale,” it said officially.

“Derek.” he repeated stupidly.

“Yes?” Said Derek after a moment, and Stiles realized he hadn’t said anything yet.

“Derek, hi, sorry, it’s uh, it’s Stiles. Stiles Stilinski,” he managed. There was a long pause.

“Stilinski,” said Derek, almost thoughtfully. “Long time.” And that was it.

“Yeah, it has been.” It occurred to Stiles that he had no idea how to break this subject with Derek. Or with anyone. Though with a guy who had about as much emotion as a rock, it was a little harder.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, and Stiles remarked that Derek had become almost _pleasant_ in the years since they’d seen each other. How weird.

“Well I... I don’t really know how to go about this, and I don’t know if I’m asking the right person, I mean it’s all just a hunch of mine and I’m probably just jumping to conclusions-”

“Out with it, Stilinski,” grumbled Derek, and the growl, for some reason, put Stiles much more at ease than the conversational tone had.

“My son has a smelling problem.” he said. Derek took this in.

“A smelling problem.” he repeated.

“He keeps smelling the kids at kindergarten. He smells me and his mother. When I caught him sniffing his sister yesterday, he said he just wanted to check that she was family,” Stiles rambled.

“What do you think I am, a child psychiatrist?” Derek asked grumpily.

“No Derek, but you’re a werewolf,” Stiles answered. That got his attention.

“And? You think your son’s been bitten? You’d probably know,” Derek said, sounding annoyed. Stiles suddenly understood the gap in their comprehension. It wasn’t like Derek had been to the wedding.

“Lydia is his mother,” Stiles said. This made Derek pause.

“But Lydia isn’t a werewolf,” Derek reminded him. “Lydia is immune.”

“Yes but...” Stiles scratched his head, playing with a pen. “Think about it. You’re a werewolf because your parents were, so lycanthropy is passed down. If lycanthropy is a trait, and immunity is a trait, maybe lycanthropy is dominant, and immunity is...”

“Recessive,” Derek supplied.

“Yes,” Stiles said.

“I’ve never...” Derek muttered something under his breath. “Do you know what it means, if he’s a werewolf?” Derek asked him.

“It means no dating on the full moon,” he said thoughtfully. Derek groaned.

“No dumbass, it means he’s mine.” Derek retorted. Stiles frowned.

“I don’t think being a werewolf is a proper argument for custody,” he replied.

“It means he’s my _pack_. Peter’s pack was passed to me and if Lydia hadn’t been immune, she would have belonged to my pack as well. So any child of hers is part of my pack too,” Derek explained. Stiles didn’t like how he phrased it- the kid could only have one father and one mother, after all. But an urgency had filled Derek’s voice that surprised Stiles. “I have to meet him, Stiles.” he said. “I can tell you if he’s a werewolf or not, but I need to meet him,” Stiles chewed his lip. This had always been the obvious end to his speculations. If Thomas really _was_ a werewolf, well, there were things Lydia and Stiles wouldn’t be able to teach him.

“Listen, Lydia’s got a conference at the University of Washington on Saturday, so she’ll be away for the weekend. Can you come then?” he asked.

“Yes,” Derek answered at once. “What’s the address?”

“Whoa there, big guy, gettin’ a little stalkeris-”

“Just give me the address Stilinski, I promise I won’t come until your wife is gone,” he interrupted impatiently. Stiles sighed. He had thought he was done getting ordered around by Derek Hale.

\------

Stiles was on alert Saturday morning after returning from the airport. He changed Maggie’s diaper and put Thomas in the backyard to play, settling himself at the kitchen table to write a grocery list. He turned on the television, half watching a soccer game and half watching Thomas blow bubbles. He could hear his son’s giggles and almost regretted calling Derek. This was not what he wanted for his son. He didn’t want him to suffer a life of learning control, of dreading the moon, of fearing for his life. He didn’t want the boy to have to make that decision between being a killer or a recluse. And he didn’t want Lydia to have to know she was the cause of his suffering.

He was watching Thomas when suddenly, the boy lifted his head and frowned, listening intently. As if on cue, like the action and reaction had switched orders, Stiles heard a car pull up in front of their house. He shook his head miserably and got to his feet. “Stay here okay, kiddo? Daddy’s gotta talk to a friend,” he told Thomas. Thomas just nodded, going back to his bubbles. He shut the sliding door so just a crack was left open and went to the front door, opening it just as Derek Hale, wearing a v-neck t-shirt, dark jeans, boots and the ever-present leather jacket, walked up his front walk. Derek opened the screen door and the two men hesitated, until Derek put out his hand. Stiles gripped it firmly.

“Stilinski,” Derek said.

“Derek, nice to see you,” Stiles said, though his eyes narrowed, deciding it was _not_ so nice seeing Derek’s nostrils flare as he sniffed visibly. He couldn’t think of a valid reason for keeping Derek outside, so he moved back and let the older man in. He was startled to see Derek stop in his tracks, his eyes shutting for a moment as he reeled gently on the spot. His eyes flew open, glowing red for a second. Stiles cringed.

“Who is the other one? Do you have two?” Derek asked immediately.

“A daughter,” Stiles said defensively. “She’s not even a year old,” he added. They heard a grunt and the sliding door, and Stiles turned to see Thomas squirming as he slid through a thin space in the sliding door. His eyes were wide and his face lifted and Stiles could see that Thomas, just like Derek, was scenting the air. Stiles’ head whipped back to Derek, observing the alpha as he took in Thomas.

Stiles felt like he’d just been hit in the head with a brick. The expression on Derek’s face he’d only seen in pictures, the pictures Lydia had taken when she’d announced she was pregnant with Thomas. It was an expression filled with bafflement, terror, hope, and love. It was an expression that showed what it’s like to be told you’re about to be responsible for the life of a real human being. Stiles had cried with happiness when Lydia had told him, but he didn’t think Derek was about to. Fortunately, Derek’s expression softened Stiles to the idea of what was really about to happen to his son. He knew nothing else would have.

Thomas whimpered, and immediately, Stiles turned protective again. But Derek knelt down, still staring at Thomas with a slightly open mouth.

“Come here,” Derek murmured. Thomas made a face, then glanced at Stiles, looking pained. Stiles, unsure of what was going on, glanced at Derek, then nodded in approval. At that, Thomas flew towards Derek, into the alpha’s outstretched arms, slamming against his chest. Stiles’ nails bit into his palms, his pulse pounding in his throat and wrists and chest. Derek’s eyes were red, his fangs were visible over his lips, his nose had planed out and hair had sprouted along his cheekbones. The clawed hands holding Thomas were gentle, though, and Thomas had his hands on Derek’s cheeks. Selfishly, Stiles was relieved to see no claws on his son’s fingers. Their noses were pressed together, but all they seemed to be doing was breathing, breathing each other in.

The jealousy rose in him like bile, and Stiles wasn’t sure how he’d be able to share his son. _He_ had raised him from the cradle. _He_ had created him. It was _his_ genes that swam in Thomas’ blood, but now Derek’s mere presence would overpower all of that?

“What’s your name?” Derek croaked. He was human again.

“Thomas Martin Stilinski,” he announced. “Who are you?” he asked, sounding bewildered.

“I’m Derek,” Derek answered, sounding more, well, _human_ than Stiles had ever heard him. “I’m your alpha.” Thomas did not appear to question this terminology.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, and Stiles thought he might cry. Derek hugged Thomas tightly. Then he got to his feet with Thomas in his arms and stumbled slightly, as if drunk. Stiles steadied him with a hand on his arm. 

“Come, have a seat,” Stiles said heavily. If the man was going to be such a big part of Thomas’ life, he might as well get used to it. “Tell me what this means.”

Derek sat in one of his kitchen chairs, Thomas on his knee. Derek had his nose buried in Thomas’ hair, his arms wrapped securely around the boy.

“I don’t know,” Derek said softly. “This has never happened, to my knowledge. A werewolf child, raised by humans, without contact from his alpha?” he shook his head. “Preposterous.”

“Well then tell me what you’re going to do about it,” Stiles said. Derek met his eyes. He looked so... So _normal_. Like a regular person, not some damaged werewolf with a terrible past. Stiles thought for a moment. “Where’s your pack, Derek?” he asked.

“What pack?” Derek asked coldly. Thomas was sucking his thumb in Derek’s hold.

“Erica. Boyd. Isaac.”

“They left. Ages ago. They left when you did.” Derek answered.

“They can do that? They can just leave their alpha?” he asked. Derek shrugged.

“It was going to be temporary. They went to school, they were going to come back, but...” Derek shook his head. “They all got jobs in LA, and they asked me to come out but I...” Stiles realized that Derek didn’t look just normal, he looked vulnerable. He looked hurt.

“You couldn’t leave Beacon Hills,” Stiles offered. “They wanted to lead normal lives but you couldn’t. And you couldn’t leave your family behind.” Derek shook his head.

“And Erica, well, you know her. She turned out to be alpha material, so she took over. After that I was kind of... It put me off giving the bite.” He shrugged.

“So you’ve been living packless?” Stiles asked, curious in spite of himself. “Were you an omega?” Derek all but growled at Stiles, eyes and teeth flashing. Stiles’ hip bumped into his counter as he subconsciously backpedaled. “Not an omega. Just an alpha. An alpha without a pack.” That was sad.

“Will you move back to Beacon Hills?” Derek asked suddenly, and Stiles was shocked and uncomfortable to hear pleading in his voice.

“We can’t,” Stiles sighed. “Lydia has work here. We have a life.” He paused. “How often do you need to see him?” Stiles asked. Derek just looked at him, as if he didn’t understand the question.

“I’ll move here,” he decided instantly. “Stanford is way better than Los Angeles.”

“Listen, Derek, I’ve got to talk to Lydia about this,” he began uneasily.

“Stiles this isn’t something you can deny!” Derek barked, and Stiles flinched. “Thomas belongs with me just as much as he belongs with you and Lydia.”

“That’s not fair!” Stiles shouted, losing control. It wasn’t something he did often. “He’s my son! It’s not our fault that Lydia was bitten by your batshit uncle!” Stiles realized he was trembling, on the verge of tears. This was surreal. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Thomas. Before Derek could reply, a wail cut the air. The werewolf went rigid, nostrils flaring again.

Glad for an excuse, Stiles fled the kitchen and hurried up the stairs. He ran to the nursery and gathered Maggie into his arms, cooing to her and rocking her, but it did no good. Her cries hurt his ears with their intensity, and his efforts failed to soothe her. Maggie was not a cryer, and she’d just eaten. Stiles hoped she wasn’t ill- he wasn’t sure if he could handle it. But suddenly, Maggie stopped, hiccoughed once, and began jabbering animatedly from his shoulder. Stiles turned. Derek was standing in the doorway, Thomas wrapped around his thick leg. Stiles backed up, holding Maggie closely to him.

“Please Stiles,” said Derek, and he realized Maggie was twisting and writhing in his hold. Heart scrunching in his chest, Stiles gently handed his daughter to Derek. She quieted at once, nuzzling once or twice at his chest before latching onto his shirt with one tiny fist and relaxing. She just stared up at Derek with Stiles’ brown eyes, waiting, breathing. Derek’s eyes closed and he pressed his face to Maggie’s, dwarfing the little girl’s. She tried to chew on his chin with the few teeth she had at her disposal, and the smile on Derek’s face made Stiles want to throw up. Finally, Derek met his eyes.

“Please, Stiles,” he repeated. Stiles was discomfited to see real humility in Derek’s face, and need, and want, and hope, and so much _loneliness_ \- “Please share them with me. They’re all I’ve got.”

\------

Derek was gone, back to Beacon Hills to get his affairs together as quickly as possible. He said he would be back by Tuesday. He had promised to a sobbing Thomas that he would be back then, if not Monday, and that he would miss him very much. He would start looking for apartments in town, close enough to come every day. He wouldn’t interfere with their life, he promised Stiles. He would add to it. He would be Uncle Derek. He would be a guest at Maggie’s birthday party. He would babysit anytime Stiles wanted him to.

_“They’ll be my life, Stiles, I promise you that. They’ll never want for anything.” Stiles looks at him skeptically. “You know why?” Derek asks. “Because they’re all I have to live for.” Stiles is shocked by this nihilism, but for some odd reason, proud of his children. “If anything happens to them, that’s it for me. So don’t you worry.”_

It was all so out of character for Derek. So compassionate, so kind, so caring. This must have been what his family had known him as. They must have raised him like this. Pack before anything else.

The best part was that Derek had promised to talk to Lydia about it, taking it out of Stiles’ hands.

Humming an old song, Stiles carried a freshly bathed and dressed Maggie to her crib. She had been less affected by Derek’s departure than Thomas, thankfully.

“It’s time to go to sleep, so have a pretty dream,” Stiles sang to Maggie, who stared up at him, fingers squeezing the air rhythmically. He put her down, slid her blankets over her and stroked her forehead. “Oh baby girl,” he sighed as she blinked up at him. “If you only knew what I know.”


End file.
